Backstory to this: I have some voices in my head. They're normal voices not scitzophrenic ones. They are just obnoxiously loud and intrusive. There's the one I've dubbed the narrator. It's an androgynous voice that narrates my actions and inner thoughts, much like if it was reading my story in a book. There's the manifestation of the depression...you know the little voice in your head that tells you you're fat, stupid, and no one loves you...that's the guy. I also will close my eyes and he'll show me disgusting, vile, and heartbreaking scenes. Like a mountain of half butchered dogs. And he's also the one that is obsessed with me killing myself. I don't much like that voice, but again, it's how my mind translates the depression. It separates it from myself because I don't like it. Rejecting it doesn't destroy it so it just kind of chills there like an I welcomed guest that could kill me if I let my guard down. I can deal with that a lot better than the last voice...
The little girls voice. Sometimes she sings which is annoying but tolerable. You've had a song stuck in your head. It's like that, but instead of Nirvana, I have "Oranges and Lemons" or fucking "Hickory Dicory Dock" with this little girl singing them. And that's still preferable to the never ending scream she has going through my head most days. That is panic attack inducing. I know there's are just manifestations oft warped psychy trying to deal with my thoughts. I don't actually hear the voices. The doctors say it's a bit abnormal for the thoughts to be so intrusive, but not that I've anthropomorhized the thoughts into unique voices as a coping tool.
Anyway, a while back, the screaming got really bad in my head, and so did the panic attacks. I wrote a creepy enough poem to cope. I've only shared it with Jess. She seemed to like it, so i guess I'll share it with the 3 other people who read my blog.
"Scream"
By Nara s. Vogel (my pen name)
There's a little girl inside mind
Made of Pictures, ashes, broken glass
Ivory lace, salted rust, and spilt wine
She crawls along the rough hewn floor
Leaving roads of ruby ribbons
Rotten bits of flesh and fabric torn
And before I lay me down to sleep
She crawls into a fallow recess
Where terrors lurk somewhere dark and deep
I know I feel her, but can't see her,
And she's softly rocking in the dirt
Like clock hands, Stiff and stern.
Scarlet slivers shiver down her hand
Fingers digging in her autumn hair
With the screaming never really planned
as the sandman cuts and fills my bones
My vodka fingers feeling heavy,
And Diseased Legs have turned to stone,
A shard of green glass escapes my eye.
Reflecting a thousand wounded hours
The darkness there kisses me goodnight
Around my ears, her lullaby wreath
Is twisted, rusting, carved in echoes
Because the girl doesn't need to breathe.
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